


Thanks a Latte

by apocryphic (orphan_account), bravest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Barista Dean, M/M, Misunderstandings, Photographer Castiel, Romantic Comedy, bad coffee puns, meddling family members
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/apocryphic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravest/pseuds/bravest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're very good at your job," Castiel says, taking his coffee.</p><p>"Thanks," Dean replies. There's a pause, and then he continues, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Thanks a latte." </p><p>Another pause, this one from Castiel.</p><p>"What?" </p><p>"Thanks a latte! It's a pun."</p><p>"That...was terrible," Castiel says. When a new costumer walks in Cas steps aside, but not before Dean can see the little smile on his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which They Don't Even Talk But Still Make An Impression

 

 

 

 

* * *

Dean's got waking up in the morning down to a science — open eyes, roll out of bed, turn off whatever the rock station's playing as his alarm clock that morning, throw clothes off in bathroom, brush teeth while waiting for water to get hot, shower, re-clothe himself, eat, run.

Except somewhere between shower and eat, all thanks to those deep and profound thoughts that somehow just _happen_ in the shower, he decides that this particular Tuesday will be an extra ordinary Tuesday, so it takes the whole anticipation factor out of the day. _Extra ordinary_ is different than _extraordinary_ , if only because extra ordinary is just ordinary with a whole heaping bunch of extra on top. Nothing extra out-of-the-ordinary. Just ordinary plus even more ordinary lopped on top.

It makes sense.

Sam's still asleep on the couch when Dean shuffles from the hall into the kitchen, fingers poised on straightening the collar of his shirt. Dean surveys the sloppy state of the living room while eating the stray pieces of cereal that fall on the counter — Sam was busy with a late night cram session, looks like. That or he just dozed off on the phone with whatever girl he's been talking to lately under the guise of studies. Dean pours milk in his bowl and pops the spoon in his mouth as he heads over to the couch.

He tries not to let it bother him that he doesn't even know _whatever girl's_ name is.

"Up and at 'em," Dean says from around the spoon, so it comes out more garbled than words really have any right to be, and he pushes Sam's legs off of the couch unceremoniously only to plop himself down in the seat freed up from the gargantuan couch potato. Sam jolts awake with a stuttered snore.

"Time?" Sam mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

"Four-thirty," says Dean with unhealthy amounts of fake glee, taking a spoonful of cereal before flipping the television on.

Sam falls back against the couch with a groan and Dean turns the volume up.

 

* * *

 

It's five-fifteen when Dean has relayed all of his worries and cares to Charlie, who deadpans for an impressive amount of time in the face of Dean's crises. Dean considers said crises awful no matter how long Charlie looks at him like she doesn't get it.

"So he's got a girlfriend," Charlie says, and Dean nods solemnly.

"All evidence points to yeah," Dean affirms. "All-nighters, which isn't like him, he's diligent. Shouldn't have to cram. Not like me, I read everything once when I had to and once the day before any quiz or whatever." He waves his hand in the air vaguely.

"And you're worried... why?" she asks, both eyebrows raised in sincere curiosity. Dean makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat and leans against the front counter of the coffee shop, lips twisting slightly in a way that suggests he's grasping at straws for an explanation. "Look, not that I blame you for being all 'concerned older brother' or anything, but if Sam thinks it's really important, he'd tell you. Right?"

Dean shifts where he stands. Charlie persists, "You _do_ talk to each other, _right_?"

He doesn't answer and Charlie groans, her hand coming up to shield her face as if she can't bear to even look at Dean for fear of his idiocy being contagious through eye contact. Dean's halfway to changing the subject when the chime of the door cuts him off and Charlie takes the early-bird customer, leaving Dean to sigh to himself and avoid any kind of eye contact.

"We talk," he mumbles defensively under his breath, walking to the back of the store to don the apron required for work hours. Benny's lenient on him and doesn't really enforce the whole uniform rule, but Dean's not stupid or lucky enough to get by without some snappy remarks from Jo.

Apron tied and ready to rumble with the morning rush of people who can't be assed to make their own coffee in the morning, Dean makes his way to the front of the shop again, huffy.

"Anything else?" Charlie's asking her customer, and there's a low voice that answers her. Dean just raises his eyebrows in sympathy, his back to the counter. The coffee he'd made earlier for himself isn't nearly as hot as it should be now and he frowns at it like it's the coffee's fault it got cold. The sound of change hitting the bottom of the tip jar is what finally catches his attention, and when Dean turns just enough to glance over, he stops in his tracks.

Charlie's customer is a man with a bed-mussed shock of dark hair, striking in its complement to the bright, if tired, eyes that meet Charlie's with a quiet word of thanks. Judging by the sharp lines of his expression (or maybe that's just how he usually looks in the morning, Dean would like to do a case study) he's already more than done with the day, and Dean stares, watching as the guy takes his drink, looks up to meet Dean's eyes —

And then Dean spills coffee up his arm.

"Fuck!" he hisses, wringing his hand out and gritting his teeth so tight that his vision starts going funky, as if the fucking hot liquid burning through his damn skin didn't already fuck him up enough. Maybe it wasn't hot enough to drink before but it sure as hell wasn't cool enough to dump over his bare skin.

Charlie does a double-take before she makes a sound that's either concern or exasperation, Dean's not sure, the pain makes all the blood in his body _feel_ loud. Next thing he knows, she's thrown a wet towel into his hands and Dean's pressing the cool cloth against his skin, grimacing.

"At least it wasn't too hot?" she says.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean says again. A whistle interrupts further cursing and Benny walks in, holding the door while mystery man leaves.

Extra ordinary Tuesday. Yeah, _okay_ , more like extra shitty Tuesday.

"Batten down the hatches," Benny says, looking over the top of the counter. "Dean's gone and done something."

"He spilled coffee on himself," Charlie answers.

"Don't think workers' comp covers that. I'll get the first aid kit."

"Fuck my life," Dean growls and Charlie finally corrects, "Frak."  

Dean straightens from his hunched position, lamenting the fact that he hadn't gotten a longer look at New Guy. Most people are in and out again this time in the morning, just because he's managed to burn himself with his own damn drink doesn't mean _Tall-Dark-and-Handsome_ was gonna stick around to watch Dean flail in pain. Anyone could get better entertainment by walking down the street for five minutes.

Benny returns with a first aid kit in one hand and a cup of ice in the other.

"What's got you sulking?" he says to Dean. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Not sulking," he shoots back. "'m thinking."

"About?"

There's only friendly curiosity in Benny's voice but Dean shifts like he's being hit with twenty questions anyway.

"I was aiming for an extra ordinary non-shitty day," Dean starts, and Benny's expression shifts as if to say _okay, go on_. Dean sighs in the most exaggerated way possible and snatches the cup out of his friend's hand, setting it on the counter before grabbing a piece of ice and rubbing it over the burn.

"And?" Benny coaxes.

"And, what? I dropped my damn coffee." Water drips off of Dean's arm; he just pushes his sleeve up more and takes another piece of ice out to use.

Benny places the first aid kit by the cup and leans back on his stool, hands folded in front of him like he's some qualified guru on the reasons Dean's spilled his coffee, which is most definitely _not_ the case because if it was then Dean wouldn't have to be explaining this.

They proceed to stare each other down. Dean folds first, making a displeased noise under his breath and snatching the first aid kit from the counter, mumbling something like _I don't know how I even manage to handle all the shit I gotta put up with._ Benny's response is to help him open the little container of burn medication (though Dean tries for all of five seconds to twist the cap off, later he'll swear that it's just because he was injured he couldn't open it.)

"You know the guy that walked out as you were coming in?" Dean eventually continues, much to Benny's satisfaction if the little sparkle he's got in his eyes means anything.

"I was a bit busy watching the perfect storm form over here," Benny says.

"Anyway," says Dean, ignoring him and throwing the medicine back into the box, shutting it with a click, "yeah. He's why."

"You make it sound like he assaulted you," Charlie says from her place at the front of the counter, leaning against it like she's been listening the whole time. "Wait, he did, right? With his _eyes_."

"Don't think worker's comp covers that, either," Benny muses. Dean stands up, waving his hands at the both of them.

"You both suck," he grumbles. "How much'd he even tip, probably nothing but his change. He had an angry-at-the-world vibe going on."

Charlie grabs the tip jar before Dean can and she sticks her hand in to retrieve whatever was put in earlier, lips pursed thoughtfully as she collects it all. She forfeits after a moment and just dumps the jar over onto the top of the counter. The clang of loose change hitting the marble is the only sound for a good few seconds while they all scope the one bill that sticks out.

Benny reaches out from beside Dean to pick up the twenty and gives a low whistle.

"Yeah, your mystery man's quite the cheapskate," Charlie says. Dean groans.

" _Fuck_."

 


	2. In Which They Still Don't Talk

Tipping a twenty might have been a bit much, but it's his parents' money, and Castiel Novak doesn't really care. To his dismay, they consistently find ways to wire him money, even after he told them he no longer wanted anything to do with them. Handing out as much of that money to those who need it is his own form of rebellion against them. Besides, the employees of that coffee place deserved it for respecting the very clear _don't fucking talk to me_ spelled out in his expression on early mornings.

Cas adjusts the strap of his camera as he makes his way down the street, glaring daggers at everyone who dares look at him for more than a second. It's too early for him to deal with small talk and platitudes, and despite the warm cup of caffeine in his hands he can't keep his mind off of the brief instant before the guy at the coffee shop burned his hand.

He's not even that concerned for him, really -- if the guy can't make eye contact without spilling boiling hot liquid all over himself maybe he should reconsider his career path -- but there was _something_.

Cas takes another sip of his drink as he rounds the corner and his school building comes into view. Its architecture is old, the building itself protected by the city as a historical landmark, and it happens to be one of Castiel's favorites. He lets his eyes trail up the sides of it, tracing the familiar lines and curves of it. That's something he knows and understands: buildings and architecture, and his camera around his neck to capture it all.

He stops a few feet from the building, switching his coffee to his left hand as he raises his camera. The building is nothing new, and he's taken pictures of it many times before, but every shot brings something new to his attention once he's processed and developed it and printed it himself. He notices one of the higher windows is dark, but there are hands pressed against the glass, the arms slipping into the gloom of the room beyond. He quickly fixes his settings without looking away from the viewfinder, and then snaps the shot, the _click_ or the shutter like music to his ears.

Satisfied, Cas crosses the street and gets in, ready to face a day of classes. He drinks his coffee fast, so it's gone before the first one is even over. Usually he takes his time, makes it last, but today he feels a little on edge.

He'll just have to go to the coffee place again.

If he so happens to encounter a certain someone and give him a quick once over to make sure he's not covered in third degree burns, then that is simply coincidence.

"Cas! Castiel!"

Castiel feels the hairs at the back of his neck rise as his cousin's voice comes to him from the other side of the room. Class is over, and he'd been about to leave and make good use of the time available to him between now and his next class.

"What do you want, Gabriel?" He says as he turns to face his cousin, who's grinning at him and waggling his eyebrows.

"Just wanted to know how my favorite baby cousin is doing," Gabriel chides, and Cas groans in disgust as he turns around to throw his empty coffee cup in the trash.

"I'm just fine, thanks," Castiel says, his irritation mostly put on. Gabriel isn't his closest family member (in fact Cas did harbor a degree of bitterness toward him for that time he spent away from their family without a word) but he's not the worst of them.

"Aw, come on. Talk to me, kiddo," Gabriel says. Castiel ignores him and heads toward the door. Gabriel -- regrettably -- follows, slinging an arm over Castiel's shoulder. A familiar smell invades his nose and Castiel should've known, really, that it wouldn't last.

"You're smoking again," Cas sniffs, and Gabriel purses his lips.

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"You reek, Gabriel. Also, don't touch me," Castiel says as he shrugs off his cousin's arm. That was something he hadn't anticipated -- for Gabriel to switch his majors enough times that he'd still be in college by the time Castiel got there. The guy was getting _old_ to be studying with teens in their early twenties. Even Cas felt out of place at times with his 23 years of age and his still unobtained diploma.

"Touchy," Gabriel says, before cackling. "Or should I say not-touchy."

Cas doesn't even qualify his pun with a response, only grunting as he walks out of the building. Now that he's had more social interaction than he ever bargained for this morning, he definitely wants another cup of coffee.

"You going somewhere?" Gabriel asks as he tightens his scarf around his neck. Cas shrugs again, but his eyes are fixed on the top corner of the building the coffee shop is located in.

"No," Castiel says, but Gabriel keeps following, falling into step beside him.

"Mind if I join you?"

"So I can listen to you talk about how much you hate Michael and Lucifer?" Castiel snorts. Their family's fights often, in fact almost always, revolve around those two. It once had been a great source of anguish for Castiel at a younger age, but he'd stopped taking them seriously; eventually it faded and everyone forgot what the issue even had been. Gabriel, however, always has something to say about them, sometimes even to their faces.

"Actually, yes. Did you know Michael's got a new conquest?"

"What?" Castiel asks, finally looking over at his cousin. Gabriel was grinning from ear to ear, spelling out his childish glee at finally having caught Castiel's attention.

"Aha! Yeah, it's this dude he's never said anything to beyond _I'll have a blueberry muffin please_ to," Gabriel goes on to explain. His voice lowers when he imitates Michael, which would be funny had it not been the thousandth time Castiel heard it.

Castiel swallows and keeps the coffee shop in view. They were almost there. Knowing Gabriel he would be stuck listening to him talk for at least an hour, but maybe he could excuse himself somehow.

He does not particularly want to hear about Michael and his conquest. Michael has a tendency to see someone he likes and automatically assuming that's _it_ , that they were going to get married and have children and it never, ever ended well. When Michael is upset he provokes Lucifer, and when Lucifer is provoked he's an asshole. Like, not an older family member kind of asshole, but an _asshole_ , the kind that would sabotage anything good going for anyone in his vicinity.

"Great," he says under his breath. The light turns red right as Castiel reaches the intersection to cross, and he stays still as cars drive by, racing off to their offices or homes. Gabriel can't stand still next to him, bouncing on his feet in the chill air. He's talking but Castiel tunes him out, thinking instead about the assignments he still has to hand in, thinking instead of his sister Anna and when he'll get to see her next.

Coffee is a recurring figure in his thoughts, and he licks his lips as he considers treating himself to a spiced latte with whipped cream. Indulging once in a while doesn't hurt anyone. The light changes and Castiel waits for the cars to slow to a stop before making his way across. Gabriel is still rambling next to him as he opens the door and steps inside the warm coffee shop.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"No," Castiel says, already tugging off his scarf.

No, because Castiel spots the guy from earlier, his back turned to him as he works three espresso shots at the same time. He moves with practiced ease, snapping grinded coffee into the handles and twisting them into the machine as if he's scratching an itch. The redhead is calling orders at him that he systematically calls back. A long line stretches from the counter to where they stand by the door. Gabriel leans up on the tip of his toes to see how far along they are, then settles back on his feet with a sigh.

"Can't we go somewhere else?"

"No. We're staying here," Castiel says, although under any other circumstances he would have made a beeline for the next place, which happens to not even be a block away. Ah, capitalism.

Castiel feels silly as they wait, wondering if this was the behavior someone in their mid-twenties should adopt. It's not entirely his fault he likes watching the guy work, is it? Standing here instead of going to talk to him isn't that pathetic, right?

It's rare for someone to catch his eye like this, but there's something about the guy that calls out to him. It's in the way he holds himself, like he's been taught to keep his back straight, in the way he grins at everyone with a warmth Castiel could never muster himself. Plus, he has the facial structure of Greek mythology statues: straight nose, strong jaw, full lips.

Castiel has a tendency to keep his distance from people, yet he wants the opposite here.

"Cas to Earth? Hello?" Gabriel says, waving a hand in front of Castiel's face. "You're staring. You see something you like?" He asks, raising an eyebrow and looking over to the coffee machine.

"Don't be gross," Castiel mutters. Gabriel's penchant for bedding as many people as he possibly can in his lifetime isn't one Castiel likes for himself, no matter how often Gabriel introduces him to pretty, nice girls. It just isn't... _him_.

Soon enough, it's Castiel's turn to order, and Gabriel nudges him toward the counter.

"I'm gonna go find us a table," he says. "Get me the usual," he adds, and Castiel's irritation flares. He's willing to extend a lot of generosity to strangers, but his family assuming he's buying for them when he knows they have plenty enough money for themselves is a different topic entirely.

The girl at the counter gives him a tight, tired smile. Her hair falls in blond waves over her shoulders, and despite her attempts at hiding it, Castiel can tell she's tired of being here.

"Hi there!"

"Hello. I'd like a Mochaccino please," he asks, glancing at the machines. He's not there anymore; he's a little further down, now calling names he reads right off the cups of finished drinks. The bandage on his hand is starting to come off, but he still busies himself to his task like he either doesn't notice, or thinks it more important. Castiel wants to say something, and after a second of hesitation, he does. "Also, his bandage is coming off," Castiel dares, pointing to him. The girl glances over her shoulder, shrugging.

"Who, Dean's? Idiot just has to be more careful with the hot beverages we serve," she says, tapping in Castiel's order. "Anything for your friend?"

For a second Castiel doesn't say anything, the name _Dean_ echoing in his thoughts. The girl clears her throat, snapping Castiel's attention back.

"Ah, yes. Peppermint latte. Please," he says, still a little stunned. Now he knows his name, but there's an imbalance. He is still just a stranger, now a slightly creepier one for having managed to find out his name is Dean without saying a word to him himself. A small voice tells him he can just _talk_ to him, but that has little chance of actually happening. Castiel can't remember the last time he'd made a friend, the last time he'd spoken to someone that wasn't a member of his extensive family.

There's no way he can just walk up to him and say something.

Instead, he picks the chair that puts his back to the baristas' work station, and uses every inch of his willpower to focus on Gabriel and the bad art on the wall behind him, never once looking back at the boy with the bandage.

Never once looking back at _Dean_.

 


	3. In Which They Are Getting There

"What are you doing?"

Dean jumps, almost dropping his permanent marker and definitely snagging the piece of paper he was just writing on. He crumples it in the palm of his hand before Jo can get a good look at it.

It's a little ridiculous.

Only a little though.

"Other than looking good to draw in customers? Not much," Dean says, leaning dramatically against the counter and popping his hip out.

Jo stares at him for a long few seconds before giving a long sigh and rolling her eyes. She waves a hand dismissively at him, turning around to toss an empty cup in the garbage. It's later at night now, and there's only a couple patrons in the shop, glassy-eyed on laptops with books surrounding them. Dean feels for them. Are they even aware time is passing? Do they know they're still in reality, or have they transcended in some way to a greater state of being?

Dean looks at the time. Too early for existential thoughts but too late for an espresso to make the time pass faster.

Which is really unfortunate, because he could go for something to keep his hands busy, outside of writing his number in various ways on a piece of scrap paper that he's planning on giving to a guy who probably doesn't care about anything other than getting his coffee in the morning and getting out to do attractive guy things.

Hell, Dean doesn't even _know_ anything about him. Just that he _wants_ to know him.

Dean starts wishing that whole romantic cliche about remembering exactly everything at first sight was actually true. It'd come in handy. Aside from the quick glimpse of blue eyes, dark hair he'd gotten before he'd spilled coffee all over himself, Dean is close to clueless.

And that makes him the shittiest hopeless romantic to ever live. Dotting his letters with hearts does not make him desperate, it makes him creative.

Dating hasn't exactly been anywhere near his to-do list since he'd started work right after high school. Not like he hasn't looked, or hasn't tried. There's just been a lack of priority. Sam in school, enjoying his work, hanging with friends — Dean hasn't really needed to go out with anyone; or, at least, hasn't felt the need. Besides, he thinks, chewing idly on a coffee stirrer as he takes a look at the crumpled paper in his hand, relationships burn him out. Not because he picks the wrong people, or maybe it is just that.

He thinks he cares a little too much.

He also thinks that's kind of just a bit of bullshit, even though it sounds pretty realistic. Dean's got enough on his plate, he doesn't need to think one of his supposedly good qualities is crap. And anyway, what does that have to do with a slight chance of going out with a guy? First guy since his actual _first_ guy, sure, but that's just as much a moot point as him caring too much is.

Dean pushes a hand through his hair and gives a great big sigh of confliction.

Jo is watching him from across the room, head tilted like she's waiting for the inevitable moment when Dean begs for her help.

There's a standoff and she only has to raise one eyebrow before Dean's shaking his head, as she walks closer.

"What are you so jumpy for?" Jo demands, reaching for the paper. Dean holds his hands very far away from himself and ultimately, farther away from Jo, who's trying to climb over the counter apparently. She's been like a little sister to him since they started hanging out more outside of work what felt like forever ago, and now more than ever, it's showing. Dean puts his free hand over her face and Jo gives an indignant huff of a sound, moving away only to walk around the counter to face off with him.

"Jo, c'mon —"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry." She deflates and Dean drops his hands, wary. Even so, he doesn't shy away when she comes a little closer, apparently heading for the register. "You just looked worried, and you worried is never a good thing, even though it's like your perpetual state of being..."

And she snatches the paper out of his hand as he's trying to shrug it off. Fuck.

Jo rakes her eyes down the tiny note, eyebrows knitting together more and more. Then she reads it again. Dean stands, not even the right kind of ashamed, just avoiding her gaze he knows is coming at any second and instead focusing on the suddenly really interesting ceiling, wow, water damage, _neat_.

"' _Agent Winchester's three step plan to romantic success_?'" Jo reads aloud. "Step one... first-name basis. Step two... determine method of delivering... number? Dean."

Dean is conveniently still absorbed in the ceiling. Really, it's beautiful. He looks back down to her when she waves the paper in his face, sputters, and grabs it back. That's what he gets for trying to do secret agent stuff while at his day job.

"That's pathetic," she informs him. "And not how you introduce yourself to someone, _Agent Winchester_. You should know better, I'm disappointed."

"Yeah, well, you know. C'mon, Jo, cut me some slack." Dean's eyes dip towards the bandage still on his hand and Jo's follow, her brows going up.

"Oh, this is about him? _Ohhh_ , wow. You got it _bad_."

"Just wanna meet him," Dean says defensively.

"And make a real good impression."

"Don't I always?"

"Nope. So here's what you're gonna do..."

* * *

 

Dean ended up with an impromptu romance counseling session from one of his best friends in the middle of work, and though he didn't take notes when she suggested ("you're gonna want to remember this, I know my stuff, Winchester"), he certainly committed her advice on not writing such personal stuff down while standing at the counter where anyone could just snatch it. The day after his session with Jo, Dean wakes up feeling a hell of a lot more excited for an ordinary day, and Dean's pretty okay with that.

Every one of his coworkers has essentially agreed without agreeing to help Dean out on his quest, as Charlie puts it, to at least say one word to the guy that made him spill coffee on his hand, even if it's just a _wow, thanks for that_. Charlie has basically become a lookout, and while Dean makes the drinks, she keeps the register. It works, they're a good team, and with Benny there helping Dean out, things get done twice as fast.

It's just about as early as it was the other day when the bell at the front door alerts them to a customer, and Dean is thankfully not holding any drinks that could burn him when he turns around this time and stops in his tracks. Charlie talks to Mr. Hot Coffee and passes on the order while Dean hops to it, thankful that there's a lull now in the patrons, save for this one.

"Don't spill anything," Benny warns quietly, and Dean gives him a stink eye, slapping the cup into one of the cardboard holders. He doesn't bother writing what the drink is, just takes a quick glance from side to side — Charlie nods at him quickly, as if to tell him to hurry up, but not until the guy's preoccupied with putting a tip in the jar — and Dean writes his number on the cup sleeve, handing it over to Charlie and trying to pretend like he's not totally watching the guy's reaction.

Benny even joins them as the man turns around and pauses by the trash can. Dean holds his breath. No doubt the reaction will be confusion at first, but Dean is obviously the one who made the —

The cup sleeve is tossed in the trash, along with the coffee stirrer, as Dean's Boy Wonder walks out.

" _Damn it_."

* * *

 

Attempt number two isn't until a couple days later, and Dean's starting to give up hope; or rather, hope for something else to take up most of his thoughts. Dean's learned at least that the guy asked about his bandage at one point, kudos to Jo for the sly mention after Dean had tried his best to describe him.

("Uh, not too tall, dark hair, blue eyes? Angles. Insomniac, or student, or drinks too much coffee and stays up too late. He was here while you were on the register, Jo."

"Congrats, you just described a large portion of our patrons."

"...Mochaccino?" Dean had chanced, hoping the mystery man was consistent.

"Oh, that guy!")

It's just Dean and Benny there when the door opens this time, and Dean's quick to glance up first. He's still not working up at the register, is instead making the drinks like usual, and he's fine with that, but if he was able to work at the front of the counter it might end up being easier to, oh, maybe talk to the guy. As it is, there's a steady flow of people coming in thanks to the morning being especially cold and unpleasant, so Dean makes the drink fast, grabs a napkin and scribbles down his number on it — this time with a tiny smiley added because that seems friendly — before he shoves both napkin and cup in the vicinity for the man to pick it up, and it's only as he does that Dean notices how the napkin's... turned on the wrong side.

Motherfucker.

Dean watches, unmoving, as Mochaccino Man sits down at one of the tables by the window and sips at his drink, reading things off of his phone. He stays there while Dean rushes to handle all of the customers, Benny sending a sympathetic glance his way every now and then. When he leaves, the napkin is unnoticed and unused, tossed into the trash can. Following in the footsteps of its predecessor.

Dean puts his face in his hands.

* * *

 

"Violation of dress code, brother," Benny tells him as soon as he walks in. Dean just shrugs and makes a point of tugging his band t-shirt down to show it off.

"It's like joint advertising."

"So... third time's the charm?" Charlie interrupts, giving an optimistic pat to Dean's shoulders, and he ties his apron on over his t-shirt while rolling his eyes as Benny gives him a patented I'll-let-it-slide look.

"Three's a magic number," he agrees only a little sarcastically.

Today, he's working the register. Today is foolproof. Today is going to go off without a hitch. Dean bounces back on his heels and taps out a rhythm on the counter, texting Jo quickly to ask if she could please bring the CD he lent her when she comes so that they can rock out to some music that doesn't sound like they're stuck in an elevator and she replies with a curt _yes, Dean, anything for you, Dean_.

In reality, she actually just sends 'k' back, but Dean likes his translation better.

Just like every other extra ordinary day of his, the door opens, and he tucks his phone away quickly, standing at attention. And just like on every other day that his mystery man with the dark hair, blue eyes comes in, Dean wants to know him.

"G'morning," he greets with a cheerful tone, and he's met with a deer in the headlights look. "Uh... not so good morning?"

"Oh." The guy clears his throat. "Um. Yes."

"Yes, it's good, or —?"

"It's fine, I meant."

"Awesome," Dean finishes lamely, and looks back at Charlie, who seems to have decided the best course of action is to not make any eye contact at all. "So, uh. What can I get for you?"

It's the same as it was when he ordered from Jo, a mochaccino, and Dean commits that to memory whether he likes it or not. While Charlie makes the drink, Dean picks up the receipt and uncaps a pen, writing his number on the small slip of paper, and then on second thought, adds his name, since that was kind of important. The receipt and coffee get passed to him and Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as the man leaves, biting his lip.

When Dean catches sight of him looking down at the receipt, he feels like it's a pretty extraordinary day this time.

 

 


	4. In Which They Finally Talk

Castiel looks at the receipt as soon as he's outside, and what he finds written on the back makes him stop in his tracks.

It's a phone number. He blinks at the digits until the door opens behind him and someone nudges him out of the way with a loud cough. He's still standing in front of the coffee shop, and in his embarrassment simply crumples the receipt and shoves it in his pocket before walking away without a glance back.

He hopes Dean wasn't watching. He hopes no one noticed his hand stayed in his pocket, curled tightly around the receipt. He hopes no one else can hear how loudly his heart is beating.

 

* * *

 

Taking this casually proves to be more difficult than he thought. Mostly he's not sure what to make of it; does Dean want to go out, does he want friendship, does he want to sleep with him? One does not entail the other, and texting him only to ask what his intentions are seems brusque and a bad idea.

Castiel tries not to think of how sure he is that Dean will recoil when he finds out what he's like, who he is. Most people do, and he can't really blame them. He's brutal sometimes, clueless others, and cares too little about basic human conventions to uphold most of them. Hence why, after years of schooling, he's come out of it with only family members for friends. Family members he can barely stand himself, at that.

The fridge hums as Castiel sits at his kitchen counter. The receipt is laid out in front of him, his phone next to it, but he still hasn't done anything with it. He considers texting Anna, asking her for advice, but quickly discards the idea. It's not much better than referring to an advice column in a magazine or googling it; not that there's anything wrong with that, Castiel just feels like he should _know_ this stuff. It frustrates him that it can sometimes be a struggle, that he doesn't know what others want or expect of him.

His phone is cold in his palm when he picks it up. He checks his email, his texts, idly presses buttons, rolls it around in his palm. Everything _but_ text Dean. A new wave of doubt hits him as he looks at the time. Is it too soon? Should he wait a few days before contacting him? What if Dean wants something Cas isn't ready to give him, doesn't want to give him?

Why is he so scared? Since when does he care what people think?

Since when does he care what _Dean_ thinks?

Cas pulls up the messaging app to enter Dean's phone number. His fingers hover over the keyboard but nothing happens, and after blankly staring at the screen, he closes out. If he can't handle sending this guy a simple text, what makes him think he can handle anything at all?

Three hours later, the number is in the garbage, and there is no new addition to his contact list. He can't do it, and he'll never return to that one specific coffee shop, and maybe even avoid the whole brand entirely in the hopes of never having to face Dean again. Sounds like a safer course of action.

Instead of thinking about Dean, he pours his evening into processing his latest uploads from his digital camera. He has pictures to work on. He sorts through them, deleting the tests and failed shots, selecting which ones he can fix or wants to edit later. He loses himself in it, and when he looks at the clock again it's about time for dinner.

The receipt stares at him from the trash can as he opens it to throw out his empty can of soup. The scrawled numbers taunt him, and the name, _DEAN_ in blocky letters, tempts him.

"Ugh. Fine," he grumbles. He slams the empty can on the counter and reaches for the receipt, thankful that it's mostly intact and not dripping in garbage juice.

He picks up his phone, weighing it in his hand a moment before entering Dean's number. He pauses, thinking. Bringing up a common interest is a good way to start a conversation. He could ask him about his job, too, or if he goes to school.

In the end he remembers the shirt Dean had been wearing earlier, a faded band logo on his chest, peeking from his apron. Castiel likes music, that's something he can have conversations about, and so that's what he choses, sending Dean a first text:

_i gather from your shirt that you like radiohead. have you ever seen them live?_

He turns his back to his phone as soon as it sends, eating his soup while aimlessly browsing the internet on his laptop. A ding alerts him that he has a new email from a group conversation, the one Anna had insisted on setting up with the others, the ones that had also decided to separated themselves from the family. She had been right about one thing: shared hatred brought people together. Of course, he still doesn't exactly _like_ all of them, except for Anna (he still misses Rachel and Hester, despite their refusal to leave their parents behind) but it's comforting to know he's not the only one.

Since Dean is taking his sweet time answering him, he reads through the last few exchanges.

 

**From:** Michael

**To:** All

 

_We should start thinking dates._

  


**From:** Gabriel

**To:** All

 

_Right on! You guys all in still?_

 

**From:** Anna

**To:** All

 

_I am! It'll be good for us, I think._

 

_Cas?_

As he's one of the less active members when it comes to their conversations, Anna often tries to reel him back in by asking him questions directly, or mentioning him. This time she wants Castiel to agree so he can't back out later, or claim he'd never been part of the plan. He's still unsure of whether or not he wants to join them on their travels, or if he can even afford it, and he hesitates with his hands on the keyboard.

Travelling the world. Frankly, it sounds amazing, if it ever was to come true. The only problem is that this is travelling with people that he sometimes can't spend more than two hours sharing air with.

His phone vibrates with an angry buzz, saving him from having to answer just yet. It's been about an hour, he notes as he looks at the time, and he wonders if he should wait that long until his next response, too. He changes his mind when he opens the text, somewhat relieved to hear the reason for Dean's lateness.

_oops sry was still @ work. yeah i did like a year ago they were amazingggg. u like them?_

Castiel replies quickly, glad that Dean seems to have taken interest in the topic, and endeared by his typing.

_not particularly. their first album was decent, but anything recent is subpar._

It's kind of clipped, and Dean might take offense, but Castiel doesn't want to embark on this being someone he's not. That's bound to fail, and hey, he _is_ kind of an asshole. He doesn't understand why people always sugar coat everything, and if Dean can't handle his honesty then that's too bad.

_hahaha are you oneo f those music snobs. dw idc ur still cute_

Something rushes through him as he reads the last part of Dean's answer, but before he can think about it too long Castiel receives another text:

_what kind of music do u listen 2 then_

He doesn't even need to think before answering. He's been into music for years, and Gabe calls him a hipster for how much of a snob he gets about it, which is something he takes pride in. Anything that annoys Gabriel is success.

_a lot of things. balmorhea, explosions in the sky, massive attack, portishead, sometimes more mainstream things, like arcade fire._

The response is quick, and Castiel imagines that Dean is off work now.

_are those actual bands or r u playin me_

Castiel frowns as he texts back, scowling at his phone. Not only does Dean not know any of the bands, he also thinks they sound like a joke. Maybe Dean is trying to be funny, but it's not really working.

_theyre...actual bands?_

His phone buzzes not even 10 seconds later, and the answer reads:

_oh. lol ive never heard of em_

Horrifying. That's the word to describe what Castiel feels as he reads Dean's latest message.

_… we cannot be friends if you dont listen to at least one of these._

He doesn't care what kind of music Dean listens to, but he does feel like sharing similar tastes speaks for compatibility. He doesn't get an answer to that text, and, thinking he went too far, he puts his phone down as he gets up to do the dishes. A part of him wishes he'd asked Dean what he liked, as they might have some in common regardless.

The next time his phone vibrates it does so twice, then three times, and it takes a fourth for Castiel to realise his phone is actually _ringing_. Thinking it might be Anna, or Balthazar, he shakes his hands dry in the sink, then wipes them on a dish towel before picking up his phone.

It turns out to be neither; the number displayed is clearly Dean's, still not entered in his contacts.

"What are you doing?" Cas sighs into his phone, closing his eyes and rubbing his fingers along the bridge of his nose. He has no idea what he's doing, why he even picked up. He hates phone calls. It's already hard enough for him to entertain small talk in person.

"Calling you. You're kind of an ass, you know that right?" Dean scoffs.

"What for?"

"To the calling or the ass bit?

Castiel lets a beat go by, making space for his eye roll into the conversation, before speaking.

"Calling. Why are you calling me?"

"To _listen to at least one of those,_ " Dean says, like he's quoting someone, and then Castiel realises that he is: Dean is quoting _him_.

"Play me something, you snob," Dean laughs, like this is easy for him, like calling someone he's only spoken to once not even a week ago to ask him to play some of his music is normal. Castiel feels almost like Dean is invading his privacy.

"I'm sorry for having standards," he bites back, and Dean laughs again.

"Yeah, well. We all have something, right? I mean I'm kind of picky about my music too, like if you can't sing along to Bohemian Rhapsody? No thanks."

"I don't know that song."

There's a long silence at the other end of the line. Castiel can't even hear Dean breathe.

"Wait, what?" Dean asks finally, incredulous.

"I _have_ heard it, but I don't know it well enough to sing it."

Dean laughs again. Castiel feels like he's being laughed at.

"What's so funny?" he bristles.

"I dunno, it's like we're kind of opposites. It's funny, since you sound like someone I'd hate, but I don't. Hate you, I mean. Um."

"This is a good conversation," Castiel says, dripping sarcasm.

"Just play me a song already," Dean says, and Cas grumbles as he walks to the living room and grabs one of his records. It's _Explosions in the Sky_ , which will do.

Castiel turns the volume up and sits on the couch, cradling his phone to his ear. It's getting a little uncomfortable, but somehow the phone call itself is...pleasant. Not that bad. Calls from his family are always tortuous and he hates every second of them, but this is different. He doesn't _have_ to put up with Dean -- he's doing this because he wants to. It makes all the difference in the world.

"This song isn't their best, but it's the first -- " Castiel begins.

"Shhh!" Dean interrupts. "I'm listening, hold on."

Castiel sighs and drops his head on the back of the couch, deciding to do the same. He hasn't listened to this specific record in a while, and the sounds that fill his apartment remind him of the first time he did. He can hear Dean breathing in and out, and for a few minutes he feels _nice_. He doesn't have to think about anything, and it's like he's 15 again, losing himself in music so as not to lose himself in his family.

The song ends, and Dean hums thoughtfully.

"What?" Cas asks, sitting up. Dean hums again, and Castiel thinks he detects amusement in it. "I'll have you know that if you hated it, it only tells me you have inferior taste and can't recognize anything beautiful," Castiel says, and Dean outright laughs.

"Calm down, I liked it just fine! I mean, it was okay, I guess. Fitting."

Castiel raises an eyebrow, even if Dean can't see him.

"Fitting?"

"Yeah. Fits you."

"Oh." Castiel isn't sure what to say to that, or whether he should be insulted or not. If the person at the other end of the line wasn't essentially a stranger, it might have been more flattering, but from Dean it's a little off putting. Castiel doesn't say anything else, and for a few seconds there's an awkward silence between them until Dean clears his throat.

"Oh, um. Wait, I don't -- Fuck, this is gonna sound weird, but what's your name?"

It's almost laughable, but Castiel holds back. Of course Dean doesn't know his name, he never told him. Which gives him the upper hand.

"What makes you think I want to tell you?" Castiel teases, and he hears Dean groan.

"Ah, fuck, I knew you'd be a jerk about it."

"Excuse me?" Castiel scoffs in offense, wondering what makes Dean think he can, one, make assumptions about him and, two, call him a jerk.

"I'm just saying! You could just tell me. Like a polite person would."

Castiel worries his bottom lip with his teeth. He _wants_ to tell Dean his name, that's the worst part. For the first time in his life, Castiel wants to interact with a stranger, and he's not sure how to handle that. On the other hand, if he starts having a life outside of his family, maybe they'll start leaving him alone.

Maybe it's time for him to branch out, to stop hanging out with cousins and sisters and uncles and brothers.

"Castiel," he says at last.

"Castiel?" Although Dean sounds unsure, there's no humor in the question, only curiosity.

"Yes."

There's a pause, some shuffling, and then Dean is talking again. Castiel feels like he missed something, like a moment just went by that went over his head.

"Cas it is, then. Wanna hang out tomorrow? I could make you listen to some of my music."

Castiel wants to say that this is going too fast, that maybe they should talk more, but fuck, he's an adult. He wants this, and everything else is an excuse to stay in his own head, because it's easier, because it's safer. Dean could be put off. Dean could hate who he is, after getting to know him.

It's _scary_ , but he's tired of being the brunt of Gabriel's jokes, and so with a deep breath, he answers.

"Alright." Castiel closes his eyes as soon as the word is past his lips, squeezing them shut and rubbing again at the ridge of his nose.

"Awesome! Great. I'm done at 4, we can meet at the shop then or something."

"Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Cas."

"See you tomorrow, Dean."

When he hangs up, Castiel stares down at his phone before shaking himself out of it. He has homework, and some pictures to work through, and things to do other than think about how easy that had been, how nice it had felt, and how much he wants it to happen again.

He's glad he said yes, and he looks forward to tomorrow more than he can remember in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to anna for the help with the bands cas lists! :') you should listen to them because they're all amazing!!!!


	5. In Which There's A Date

Truthfully, Dean wasn't expecting a full-on phone conversation when he gave Castiel his number, nor was he expecting a date the next day. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't any of what he's gotten. Dean almost drops his phone when the call is over, double-checking to be sure that he definitely is disconnected before he grins and fistpumps in victory.

"That's an impressive spring in your step," Sam comments when Dean slides in victoriously thanks to the linoleum floor of the kitchen.

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Dean asks, tossing the words over his shoulder as he dips down to look in the fridge. Leftovers? Leftovers. 

Sam snorts. "If they are, I wouldn't know." The sound of pages turning registers, and Dean takes a quick glance to the table. More studying. Or maybe just reading for fun, Dean isn't sure. He needs to get the kid a tablet to read on or something. It'd save all kinds of shelf space. "I'm just saying. You seem happy." 

Dean closes the fridge, having procured a tupperware container of what looks like meatloaf but could be some kind of casserole. He takes the top off and is pleased to find that it's the former. In the microwave it goes.

"What, am I just naturally a grouch all of the time?" Dean raises a brow at his brother after he presses the start button on the microwave, leaning against the counter and raising his hands in question. "I like to think I'm a joy to be around, Sammy, don't tell me I've steered myself wrong all this time." 

"Not what I meant," Sam says, closing his book with a _smack_. "Who were you on the phone with?"

Dean's caught off guard, but it would figure that Sam could hear him from the kitchen. Not like he'd made any effort to be quiet with his enthusiasm. Talking with Cas after he was a mystery for so long? It calls for a damn party; Dean's lucky all he did was fistpump a little and make a fool of himself in the secrecy of his own room. 

Sam's grinning at him.

"Don't look at me like you're expecting some kind of shifty response. Unlike some people, I don't keep my life locked in a password journal," Dean said, instantly regretting the jab, no matter how much he'd played it off as a joke. Sam's face fell only minutely, like he wanted to reply, but Dean went on to cut him off. "I was on the phone with Cas. Castiel." 

Sam doesn't seem immediately distracted, but he goes with it anyway and Dean sighs inwardly with relief. "Cas Castiel? Is that their full name?" A dubious snort accompanies the question.

"No, you dweeb." Dean grins. "His name is Castiel, I call him Cas." 

"And you nicknamed him that, or...?" 

Yes. Dean touches at his arm gently, thinking about the coffee burn. He hadn't exactly told Sam a whole lot about the whole situation.

("What the hell happened to your arm?"

"Rabid dog. Wolf, actually. Tore me up while I was helping a little old lady across the street, but then it came along and got its steel fuckin' teeth all in me. Old lady was mugged while I was distracted. Just goes to show I am the only one keeping bad things from happening to good people."

"Never mind, Dean.")

The microwave goes off and Dean doesn't jump, that would be dumb, no matter how much Sam snickers from the table. It's... a good feeling, talking to Sam openly. They haven't been lately, though whether that's because of Dean's own emotional reclusiveness or Sam's hectic college student life, Dean's not sure. Probably both.

"Anyway, yeah. Cas. He's comin' over tomorrow, so be on your best behavior, 'kay? Don't forget to put on a shirt, don't need my friend being scarred for life."

"You're the one that never wears pants when you're home alone." 

He has a point. Dean tells him to shut up anyway.

 

* * *

 

Work drags on. The clock doesn't move fast enough, the people don't act distracting enough, and Dean's pretty sure that he's got a mad amount of coffee to clean off of various surfaces because a bunch of college kids needed to cram and books like to knock drinks off of tables when said books are being handled by sleep-deprived students who have lost what was left of their faith in the world. 

By the time Dean's shift is nearing a close, Jo's asked him five times what crawled up his pant leg to make standing still impossible, Benny's tried to tell him to lay off the espresso shots, and Dean has cleaned the same table way more than once in the last twenty minutes. There's only a couple of people in the shop, the rest of the patrons trickling out slowly, and when the sound of the door opening reaches Dean's ears, he almost drops the paper towels and cleaner in his hands.

He turns to look and lo and behold, Castiel is standing there like he was having an inner debate with himself and Dean gives a little wave, effectively slinging cleaner on his own face. Great.

"Heya, dude." He goes behind the counter to put the supplies away, popping back up and beginning to untie his apron. They haven't talked in person, only swapped, what, two sentences? And they were the most awkward sentences of Dean's life. Fuck. Hopefully the carefree conversation would roll over to today. "Hope you're ready to get your music taste served a platter of amazing." 

Castiel's expression shows the nicest touch of a smile and Dean rejoices.

"Only if you're prepared to embark on an _experience_." Cas' voice is low, like he's trying to preserve some semblance of a studious environment for the kids memorizing test subjects at the speed of light and Dean leans over the counter slightly to see that Cas is indeed holding quite a few CDs. He whistles, breaking Cas' attempt to keep it down, for which he gets a slight side-glance from the other man. 

"This the same stuff I listened to last night?" Dean asks, reaching to tap lightly at one of the cases. Castiel nods, and Dean hangs his apron up, tossing a grin over his shoulder.

"Awesome."

 

* * *

 

At least Sam's wearing a shirt when they get to the apartment. 

Not as much can be said for the people on the television. 

"Turn off the pay-per-view, we have a guest," Dean calls as he takes his coat off, Cas hovering nearby and doing the same after Dean steps away properly.

"It's the Olympics!" Sam turns around on the couch to give Dean a good come-on-man expression and then he sees Castiel and his face shifts gears to something a little more enthused. "Oh, hey! Cas, right?" 

And they're off. Dean tries not to feel a little nervous — and fails at it — because usually he doesn't introduce his friends to his family so fast. Usually it's a gentle decline into it. One toe in the water before jumping in. Because family is... well, family is the most important thing. Of course, there's the friends who are already family... and an existential confusion about what constitutes in interpersonal relationships is not an existential confusion that Dean needs at the moment.

Dean had mentioned Sam on the way, but it was kind of a blur — _he's my brother, we live together, college, lawyer_ — thanks to the fact that he didn't actually live all that far from his work. And also because Castiel was a very good listener. No interrupting. Looked like he really, really enjoyed hearing Dean ramble about how proud he is of his brother. So either a very good listener or a very good actor.

"Yes, _Cas_." Castiel's reply is tinged with a hint of laughter and he looks sideways at Dean, prompting a little shrug and a mouthed sorry-it's-catchy from the latter. "And you're Sam, Dean's brother, correct?" 

"Hope Dean hasn't told you too many bad things about me already." Sam stands, rubbing the back of his neck as walks around the couch to hold the other hand out in an offer of shaking. 

Cas looks at the hand for just a moment before taking it, and Dean relaxes, a relieved sigh escaping. 

"All good, actually." His voice is warm, and Sam seems pleased. "It's nice to meet you, Sam."

That easy. 

Dean feels a weight, however slight, move off of his shoulders. Not like he had any reason to be nervous. They're just hanging out. Together, alone. 

With his brother in the other room.

Well, Dean is pretty sure that keeps the qualifications away from date, so there's that.

"Go back to watching people celebrate their feats of athleticism," Dean says, waving a hand at his brother as he passes. Castiel follows after Dean invites him along with a little gesture, and Sam sends Dean one last glance. 

A friendly one.

Awesome.

"Sorry, I know you got your hands full — toss everything on the bed?" he suggests, kicking the door mostly-shut with his foot. Castiel does, extracting one CD out of the bunch to hand to Dean with an expectant look on his face.

"I didn't think you would have a record player. So I brought these as a slightly less exciting alternative." 

"You have an actual _record player_?" Dean takes the case, reading over the front and the back before setting it down beside his laptop. He turns the thing on, awaiting the moment he can regale his friend with all the classy hits that make up his music library. "I'm impressed. I just have a bunch of tapes. Finding something to actually play 'em on is a bitch." 

There's the sound of a mattress sinking down and Dean doesn't have to look to know Cas sat. Good. Get comfortable. Mi casa, su casa, Dean almost says. Or something.

"You frequent garage sales, I imagine?" Castiel asks as Dean's fingers tap at the keyboard idly. 

"Nope. Dad had a bunch, Mom had more. I kinda inherited 'em all." 

There's a silence. One that doesn't feel awkward so much as... apprehensive. Territory not yet broached because, technically, they're still pretty much strangers. Even if it already feels like Dean's known him for so much longer. 

The laptop's noise signifying that it has, in fact, started up, makes Dean jump and he gives a little-too-loud, "alright, time for a jam session," catering plenty to Castiel's entertainment or chagrin, because there's a snort from the bed and Dean isn't sure how to interpret it. But that's fine. He has music to share.

Starting off strong: Ramble On first.

"You know it?" Dean asks, turning around and dancing a sort of jig, much to Cas' amusement if the glitter in the other man's eyes is any clue.

"Not _well_." 

"So... you've heard it?" 

"Not at all," Cas amends. 

So begins Castiel's education in Dean's music taste, through Led Zeppelin ("I have the entire discography of everything they ever did." "My turn to be impressed."), The Doors ("Short-lived. But classic." "This I can at least remember hearing." "Good."), AC/DC (the only reply Cas gives him is a long look and Dean supposes that the stare summarizes that option well enough), and plenty of other random choices that Dean happens to have lying around on his computer.

They're halfway through the entirety of Zeppelin's _Physical Graffiti_ album when Dean happens to look at the time, turning the volume down.

"Oh, shit. You stayin' for dinner?"

Castiel follows his gaze from his place, sitting in a chair next to Dean's. 

"Am I? I didn't intend to invite myself." He looks a little... apologetic, actually, and Dean laughs, getting out of his seat. 

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup, on the house." A wink, and Cas' lips twitch up slightly. There's no refusals of the meal which hopefully means that it's something Cas likes, and Dean starts walking backwards out of the room while Castiel pauses the music. "Sammy can entertain you just enough so that you don't pass out from boredom while I throw it together." 

"You cook, then?"

"Nothin' fancy. I like comfort foods." Dean shrugs, walking down the hall and glancing in the couch's direction once they make it in there, Sam engrossed in whatever he's watching now. Some Lifetime movie — Dean recognizes it from his last session of daytime television. 

"Like grilled cheese and tomato soup," Castiel says as he goes to sit down with Sam. 

"Like grilled cheese and tomato soup," Dean agrees. 

It occurs to him while he's finishing the last of the places, soup in bowls and sandwiches on plates, that it hasn't felt forced to talk to Cas at all. Granted, he's mostly been talking about himself because the guy has a way of making Dean feel like sharing, but he actually wants to talk to him. Which is great. Because talking is hard. 

But talking to Cas is not as hard.

"Okay, kiddos. Take your seats at the table." 

An eyeroll from Sam and a half-smile from Cas as they do, and Dean sits down last at the little table with his brother and his new friend, because they weren't strangers now, beams when Cas compliments his grilled cheese skills, beams even more when Sam asks for seconds — "there's an extra one on the pan by the rest of the soup, you freakin' giant" — and when Sam offers to wash dishes after, Dean isn't going to tell him no.

"I made dinner, of course you're washing up," he says.

"You also have company," Sam points out, and Cas nods his thanks as Sam takes his plate and bowl. 

"Actually... I should be leaving, it's getting late." Castiel stands up, walking over to retrieve his coat. Dean tries not to let his face show his disappointment, starting off to his room.

"I'll get your —"

"Keep them for now. We didn't get to listen to anything I brought, so consider it your homework." 

Dean turns on his heel, hiding his smile by shrugging and going to the door with him. "If you say so. Sounds like the best homework I've ever gotten, though." 

"It should," Cas says very seriously. There's a pause as he opens the door and they both go out, Dean crossing his arms to keep a tiny bit more warm. "Thank you. For dinner, and for introducing me to your brother. He's much more pleasant to be around than my family." Cas' voice is dry by the end. Dean knows the feeling, bites back the desire to ask about Cas' family, and shifts where he stands instead.

"Well, hey. Consider yourself welcome anytime. Our door's open to you."

There's another pause, this one a little longer and less filled with action — just the quiet between them and the sound of cars in the distance. Dean realizes a little too late that he's staring, but Cas is staring back, and finally the moment is broken by the muffled sound of a dog barking, allowing Dean the chance to slide his gaze away and clear his throat.

"Comin' for coffee tomorrow?" Dean asks, mentally berating himself for sounding so eager.

"Of course." There's a fond note in Cas' tone that warms Dean like his lack of a jacket definitely isn't. "Have a nice rest of the night, Dean." 

"You too." 

Cas walks away and Dean watches for all of a minute, only going inside once he can't feel a couple of his fingers.


End file.
